Mommy's Little Dreamer
by Agent Nova
Summary: It's Mother's Day. John has a moment of reflection. One-Shot.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Thunderbirds. The following story has been written purely for entertainment purposes - no profit is being made by the author.

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><p><strong>Mommy's Little Dreamer<strong>

I don't remember as much about her as I should. It's been so long since I lost her. I don't remember her face sometimes. I look at a photograph, but after a few weeks without seeing it, the memory fades. I know what she looked like, I just struggle to bring the image fourth. I don't recall many things, but there are a few precious moments I've managed to hold on to.

I remember when I used to have nightmares. She would gently pick me up out of bed and take me to the kitchen. She'd fix me some hot cocoa with marshmallows, then we'd go into the living room and wrap ourselves in a blanket. She would hold me close and tell me stories until I had fallen asleep. She never left me until she knew I felt safe.

Her arms were warm, soft, comforting.

When I was sick, she'd cradle me in the old rocking chair on the porch and sing soft songs, rubbing my back and smiling all the while. No amount of medicine in the whole world could make me feel better like she did.

Virgil looks just like her. He has the same warm brown eyes and chestnut hair. Scott is perceptive, like she was, and he's good at getting people to open up. Though, Mom was even better. My dad used to say she could get a flower to open its petals in winter. She could bring calm to any storm. There were times when Gordon would go into a blind rage because Virgil had teased him, and then Mom would intervene and sit them both on the sofa. She'd start to talk and soon, they would talk. The anger would evaporate.

Even when she was first gone and Scott would lay in bed next to me and try to get me to open up, I'd close my eyes and imagine it was her resting there instead.

'Now, John, honey. What seems to be the trouble?' she'd say, stroking my hair. 'You know you can tell me anything.'

And I could. I really could.

One of the things I remember most about her was her sewing. When I was six, Dad retired from NASA to set up his own business. Every cent we had went into it. We didn't have much money to spare, and with a new baby on the way, Mom used to take in sewing to get extra income. For a while, she got all our clothes at the discount store and, more often than not, we would pass one thing down to the next: Scott, to Virgil, to me, then Gordon. Mom made her own clothes, too.

I remember during that time, it was midwinter and I'd outgrown my coat. It was a tatty old thing, about three sizes too small, and I had not long started the first grade. It was the coldest winter we'd had in Kansas in a long time and every day, I'd sit and freeze. Neither Scott nor Virgil had a coat to spare. They hadn't had any growth spurts and we didn't have the money to buy me a new one.

Mom came to my rescue.

She took me into her room and sat me on the bed. She went into her closet and pulled out a box of fabric scraps and brought them over.

'I know you want a coat from the store, honey,' she said, smiling at me. 'But Daddy and I just don't have the money right now. I'll make you a nice warm jacket instead. How about that?'

She let me pick out the scraps and I sat down beside her as she sewed. I remember how her hands moved fast and graceful. I would watch her for hours. She'd talk to me while she worked. She always did. We joked that I would have a coat of many colors.

'A coat of many colors for my little dreamer, just like Joseph.'

I was so proud of that coat. I was too young to be embarrassed that it was made from scraps. I'd never had a warmer coat. I loved it. Well, at first I did….

When I went back to school, the other kids laughed at me. They said my coat looked funny. They called me _rag boy_ for weeks on end. I came home every day in tears, and every day, Mom would hold me tight. She'd wrap me in a warm blanket and tell me that she loved me and my coat. She said it was silly to worry about what other people think, that I should worry more about being warm.

'My silly little dreamer. Would you rather be warm or would you rather have them stop laughing and be cold? They'll forget about your coat in a little while. But if you get yourself pneumonia, it won't do you any good.'

My mother was so smart. It was many years before I realized it. I spent so much time worrying about what other people think. I could have saved myself a whole lot of trouble if I had just taken her advice.

She also made quilts for each of us. Big warm quilts, all made by hand - a tradition started because Virgil had been scared of going into a big boy bed.

'Whenever you get scared,' she'd said to us, 'just wrap up in the quilt and it'll be like me hugging you.'

I remember after her funeral, I couldn't touch the thing. It was months before I could use my quilt again. But once I could, I never stopped. It was the closest thing I could ever have to feeling safe and warm and happy.

It was never the same, though. I couldn't _feel_ her.

Sometimes, most times, I wish I still had her to talk to. There are so many things I need to know, so many things I've forgotten. What was her favorite food? Her favorite color? How did she and Dad meet? There is so much advice I still need. What's the best way to cook her special chicken soup? What do I do if I make my girlfriend angry? So many things I'll never get to ask. I'll never know.

I could never ask my dad those things. Even to this day, he still finds it painful to talk about her. I can't bring myself to burden him.

But I remember the way Mom used to look at him - like he hung the Moon. I remember the many times they would laugh and dance, and the way they'd argue playfully and she'd swat at him whenever he took a chance with homemade brownies.

Dad was never the same after she was gone. None of us were.

My biggest regret is when I was nine years old. I was going through a stage where it suddenly wasn't cool to be Mommy's little dreamer anymore. Despite the demands of such a large family, she always had time for me, but I stopped letting her kiss me goodnight. I avoided her; didn't tell her about my days at school, didn't sit with her under the blanket with hot cocoa. I didn't even hug her goodbye that night.

After she died, I realized my mistake. Suddenly, physical displays of affection didn't bother me so much. I found I needed them because she could never give them again. I'd never smell her perfume again, never hear her voice whisper soothing words in my ear whenever I got sick.

Scott was real good about understanding all that. He was a good shoulder to cry on and was always there with hugs for me. But it wasn't the same. I'd have given anything to wrap my arms around Mom again, anything.

As the years went by, I gradually learned to see beyond my own grief and there came a time when I began to feel sorry for my youngest brother, Alan. He was so little when Mom died. He never had half as much time with her as I did, and only ever knew her from photographs and home movies. She never got the chance to make him a quilt of his own, so I'd let him share mine.

And on chilly nights, when we'd be sitting on the porch, or whenever nightmares came, I'd warm us some cocoa and wrap him in the quilt…our quilt. I'd tell him that every time he snuggled up inside it, Mom was giving him a hug.

One evening, he looked up at me and said, 'Mom was a special lady. She gives the best hugs ever.'

'Can you feel them?'

He smiled and put his hand on my heart, then touched his. 'Right there. It's even better than a big hug. I can take it with me.'

And he was right. I carry Mom with me, we all do. I know she'll always be there, hugging us, watching over us. I just wish I'd realized how much I loved her when she was still alive. I would have held her tight that night and never let go.

It's true what they say. You never know what you've got 'till it's gone.

~The End~

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><p><strong>Author's notes: <strong>Hello again, folks! I can't believe it's been almost 18 months since I posted my last story. Time flies! I felt just as nervous posting this one as I did with my very first fic, which is why I chose to write a short tale here, just to help me get back into the swing of things, you know. I guess the trick is not to leave it so long next time. Noted.

Anyway, I usually write John as the second eldest, but I've made an exception this time and written him as third-born. I felt it was the only way the story would work. I've also used American spelling throughout, seeing as John is the narrator. If I had written 'Mum' instead of 'Mom', it would've stuck out like a sore thumb. I've tried to be as consistent as possible with that, but if any of my 'Britishness' has accidently crept in there, I can only apologise.

This piece may not be entirely canon-friendly (but that's the beauty of fan fiction, isn't it? We can all put our own little twists on things) and I understand that it may be difficult to imagine the Tracy family ever having financial problems (it would've only been short-term anyway), but I didn't want to lable it as AU, so I hope fans of the TV-verse (and Movie-verse) won't mind too much. :)

And because today is Mother's Day here in the UK, I am dedicating this story to my mum. Chances are, she won't get round to reading it (she's a bit of a technophobe - hates computers), but it's the thought that counts. I've already bought her some nice flowers and a big box of chocolates anyway. Love you, Mum. xxx

Reviews will be most welcome. Many thanks.


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